Alone, Listening to What the Waves Have to Say

Sitting here in this inlet 
Secluded, not believing what 

You hear, you could almost 
Forget what brought you here. 

Saloon Sharp Shooters, Raymond, Washington, circa 1950

Now that one last dude has shot 
His wad of nickels into the belly of the beast 
And cleared out just before closing time, in comes 
That upstairs Greek immigrant tenement urchin who starts 
Biting the dust under the row of abandoned pinball machines. 

He knows if he hangs in there and keeps 
A sharp eye out for any strays, the understanding 
Irish lady of the saloon will once again look 
The other way and let him pocket 
One more buffalo head or two, surely 

A good day’s killing for the likes 
Of the both of them. 

Who Else Out There Thought Facebook Was Only Going to Be a Passing Phase?

Friends, say you posted 

The full moon is like a poem 
That moves you— 

Could you wait around a month for it 
To become marble so you could feel 

Moved enough to like it again? 

Bodies of Summer

Onto the parched flanks of the sprawling 
Olive grove opposite, the midday sun throws 
An inkling of what passes for shade 
Under each canopy of blasted limbs. 

(Though under the cover of the veranda, 
You still dare not move for the heat.) 

Slowly stretching their legs, 
The crazed thrumming incessant 
Cicadas will soon burst full-blown 
Through the skin of your teeth. 

Evenfall

blue 

mist rising 
from blue 

mountain 
hollows 

darkening 
blue- 

black 
swallows 

sky